Deborah Markman

Translated by Irene Emodi

The thirteen-year-old boy refused to go and
herd his father's horses at night. After much convincing he did go
out and was rewarded. When he reached the field, a few kms. from
town, he saw a beautiful girl in the moonlight who was also herding
her father's horses. The girl was as beautiful as the field, as a
star in the sky above.

From that meeting on it was no longer necessary
to urge him, for he was happy to go and herd the horses. He would
await the appointed time anxiously and with a beating heart he would
take the animals out to the field. When he returned home, lay down to
sleep and got up in the morning, at the "heder" and at home he would
dream about the girl he saw at night. He would roam among the market
stalls, in spite of the Rabbi's ban, for he knew that he would see
her there.

The love story between the boy and girl went on
for seven long years, until the day they had longed for arrived
&emdash; their wedding day. They were very happy and after the
"honeymoon", on weekdays, the daily struggle to make a living did not
daunt their love for each other. Their home was always open to guests
and full of light.

From time to time an "Offitzier" would stay at
their home or a "Pan". A Russian or Polish official, for Dokshitz was
situated on the Polish and Russian border and its rulers would often
be replaced. However, grandmother was very clever and knew how to get
along with everybody, therefore all those who came to her home
respected her.

When their first son was born, they were very
happy and hoped to establish a large family. However, this did not
happen. Some of the children died when they were still young,
grandmother was very sad and found no rest. She asked the Rabbi for
advice. The Rabbi listened to her lament and advised her to return to
her husband and when the new baby was born he should have two names
&emdash; thus advised the Rabbi &emdash; which should not be revealed
until the day of his wedding. The newborn baby should be dressed in
white linen, until the age of three, and this should be done with all
the children to whom she would give birth. Grandmother listened to
the Rabbi and acted accordingly. She dressed her children in white
clothes, gave them various names, brought them up with a great deal
of love and even had time for "Tzene veRe'na" (religious book of
guidance for women)

However, although she was very busy,
grandmother did not forget the poor of the town who were unable to
lay the Sabbath table and she would send them whatever she was able
to obtain.

Grandfather was busy at the butcher shop, many
came to consult him about all kinds of animals, big and small, for he
was a great expert.

The Sabbath eve was a particularly beautiful
time. Grandfather would return from the synagogue, splendidly dressed
and immersed in a different world. Daily matters were forgotten,
worries blown away, and the Sabbath candles on the table created an
atmosphere which only a Jew at ease with himself and his God could
know.

The sons would sit around the table, sing
Sabbath songs or listen to their father read the weekly Bible
portion. A "Sabbath guest" &emdash; a "Talmid Haham" (religious
scholar), a Yeshiva boy would sit at the table and tell the children
stories from the Bible.

On religious holidays all the grandchildren
would come to Grandfather, proud of their new and festive attire. One
would say : "look, Grandfather, I have new shoes", and the other
would say: "look Grandfather, how beautiful my dress is", and little
Shaulik would ask: "Grandfather, did you see my new patch?"

Such was the life of the Jews in the little
town of Dokshitz: holidays and weekdays, love and struggle, new
clothes and new patches.

May these few lines serve as a candle
commemorating my forefathers who I unfortunately never got to know.

[Page 103]

From the Distant Past

Shaul Markam (Markman) / Kibbutz Ayn-Shomer

I don't know why I remember these very things.
But so it is. I have already been in this country over 30 years.
Eating oranges - without stop. And yet, every time I peel an orange I
recall the first orange I ever enjoyed. It happened so:

I was already a student in the Tarbut-school
[culture school] in Dokshitz. Niyumke Glekhengoz, a son of wealthy
parents, always wanted to sit by me. I don't know what was in his
head, but he did not listen to the bright students. Every time the
teacher asked him something he remained immobile and delayed and
didn't know what to answer, until I quietly whispered the answer to
him.

Once he brought an orange to school and began
to peel it slowly in the middle of class under his bench and gave me
a piece. The first time I saw an orange and the first I ever tasted.
And every time I eat an orange here I remember that specific fruit,
when I tasted it for the first time. I believe that I will always
remember that first orange from Dokshitz.

*

[Page 104]

You will probably say that it's not nice, but I
know, just as I remember Dokshitz, this is how it was with
scratching. From childhood on I used to run after my brother
Nakhman-Reuven, 3 years older than I - I came, for the first time, to
Rabbi Velvl "the louse's" kheyder. Why did he have such a nickname?
Because he used to do the following: He used to stick his hand under
his arm, take a louse out of there and say this verse with a melody,
"If one finds a thief in the act and kills him," squeeze the louse
between both knuckles of his thick fingers, with a sharp crack, then
wipe the blood from his knuckles and end the verse, "you are not
culpable for his blood."

Members of Hashomer Hatzair with
their parents, the Markman family

...So, I look for the first time at
Velvl the teacher's kheyder. The floor - of lime. A dark room. In one
corner - a long table with benches on both sides. Small children sit
there sprawled. Up front is the rabbi with his long beard. A stick in
his hand. And all repeat after the rabbi, word by word, in a loud
voice, the morning prayer from the prayer book. In a second corner is
a big brick oven with a glowing fire, by which the Rebbetzin [Rabbi's
wife] kept busy. She cursed the rabbi, the students, and the whole
world with weighty curses. In the middle, a white goat walked around
and little black fleas fell off him all the time onto the floor. Near
him, a hen wandered about, squawking in a loud voice.

I stood still by the bench, confused by the
uproar. Unable to contain myself - and wet my pants and cried hard.
My brother got angry with me. He took me outside immediately. He
tried to calm me down and dealt with my pants. He said that he would
not allow me to run after him anymore. He would not take me to
kheyder anymore. I could not calm myself - and I remember it until
today.

*

The bathhouse also got me all mixed up. When
our mother noticed us scratching ourselves, she would take out a few
groshen [Polish currency], with a groan, and send us to the bath. We
took a bucket, a towel, soap, a rag, and we went. My father held my
hand so I wouldn't get lost. I looked at everything with curiosity.
We came to the river's edge. A big black building - here is the bath.
On the lean of the roof stood a gentile who poured water from the
well and without stop emptied the buckets in the eaves.

[Page 105]

Inside - a tremendous tumult. My father urged
me on - not looking around, just undressing. One must manage
undressing well, sleeve to sleeve - the shirt, the pants, and
especially the tallis katon [the traditional fringed undergarment
worn by Jewish males]. Lice stayed especially in the tsitsis
[fringes]. After one bundled it all up, one went into the big room,
where the clothing was hung quite high on special poles in order to
exterminate the lice with the help of a heavy steam - and then one
began to wash oneself.

* * *

I looked around: a tumult, noise, one almost couldn't see because
of the thick steam. Slowly I could distinguish people on the upper
benches. Everyone held a little broom made of white birch branches
which he beat on himself over his shoulders and belly. There were
also cases when one would lie stretched out on a high bench and
another would beat him and rub him with the broom. Both would groan
with great pleasure. Someone kept going over to the big oven with the
red-glowing stones and poured a few buckets of water  then the
steam would really increase a nd it was actually difficult to
breathe.

My father would see how I was looking about. He would take my
little hand, soap up the rag and rub my head, my back, my whole body.
When I would start to scream that the soap was burning my eyes he
would pour a few buckets of water over my head  and that was
the end of washing. We barely could find our clothing, we'd leave the
rucfuss, go over to the other room, get dressed and  back home.

Awhen my father had tried to put me down on one of the benches, I
went only to the second and quickly ran back because I couldn't catch
my breath. The disinfection of the clothing didn't help much and the
biting began again. Then I came upon an invention. In the winter
nights, when the oven was heated up and the bricks glowed, I would
pull my shirt up over my head and stand with my bare back towards the
fire and scratch myself from top to bottom and bottom to top,
actually until it hurt, but did not allow myself to sop. I remember
it until today.

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